The other side of my heart
by SpitzeFeder
Summary: Aramis has a hand with children. Fortunately. And a hand with women. Unfortunately. Because how does a 16 year old boy carry on after the loss of his baby and his wife-to-be? My view on events of Aramis past, with a bunch of present and past whump. English is not my first language, so please be kind :-) I try to update regularly! Thanks for reading
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Aramis watched in silence as Agnes disappeared with Henry in her arms towards Avalon.

His heart was filled with compassion for this young, courageous woman, who, re-united with her own flesh and blood, a piece of herself, wandered into a common future. Aramis wondered if he could ever experience such a future himself, whether he really wanted it. Maybe later. Always later. Not with Isabel, not with Adele, not with Agnes and her child, certainly not with Anne.

"One day you will write your memoirs, and on each page is the name of a woman."

He turned to his friends, all sitting smiling on their horses. He had done the right thing. His so-typical broad smile spread across his face, and he started to mount his horse. It took him longer than usual. Aramis felt deep tiredness seeping through his bones. His friends had already turned their horses, but the marksman was still standing beside his steed, unable to lift his leg to the stirrup.

A quick glance told him that everyone turned their backs to him. He let out a long breath and with it the tension he had been wearing since the events on the bridge yesterday afternoon leave his body. His forehead sank against the flank of his horse. His left hand gently laid on his battered right side where the bandits had dragged him from his horse onto the bridge railing.

"Aramis, what are you waiting for?"

D´Artagnan had lead his steed back to him in a short gallop. The young gascons face took on a worried expression as he pulled his horse to a halt beside his friend.

"Aramis? Is something wrong?"

He made ready to slide from his horse, but Aramis had already lifted his head, a smile apperared on his tired face. A smile that only reached his mouth but not his eyes.

"No, my friend. All is well."

He fumbled with the thongs on his saddle.

"The ... the stirrup was twisted."

He took a deep breath, put his foot in the stirrup and swung, well, he climbed onto his horse. At the thought of how ridiculous it looked, Aramis grimaced.

When he finally sat in the saddle he straightened up, and, turning his horse, nodded to the young Gascon that they could finally start, back to Paris, back to the garrison, back home.

D'Artagnan paused for a moment, eyebrows drawn, looking thoughtfully at his departing friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It did not help anything.

The musketeers and Constance had ridden back to town in a light, steady gallop, but by the time the group reached the garrison, Aramis´ shirt was soaked through under his doublet, and he felt every breath burn in his lungs.

Not wanting to show any sign of weakness he held the reins seemingly relaxed in his left hand, his right arm close to his body and his hand rested as good as possible on the saddle peg. But every step of his horse sent hot waves of pain through the soldiers side. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled with relief as they finally passed the garrison gate, so he could swing a leg over the horse's neck and his feet finally touched solid ground again.

For a brief moment he leaned his back against his quiet mount, when he heard the footsteps of the stableboy Antoine beside him.  
"Shall I take Roger, Monsieur Aramis?"  
His eyelids felt heavy as he lifted them and looked at the young fellow.  
"Thanks, Antoine."  
He handed the lad the reins and pushed away as the boy led the horse aside. His legs felt heavy as Aramis finally made his way to his room next to the hayloft.

"Aramis?"  
Athos questioning call died away unheard, while Aramis wordlessly put one foot in front of the other. The swordsman looked inquiringly into the circle of his musketeers. D'Artagnan shoved his lower lip forward and shrugged.

"Maybe he was in love with Agnes."

All three men laughed briefly at the thought of the eternally recurring love affairs of their dark-haired friend.

Then all went their ways, Athos to Treville to report to him. D'Artagnan put his arm round Constances shoulder to lead them to their common apartments, and Porthos threw his hat and harness on the table in the courtyard and reached for a red-cheeked apple.

It had been a good day.  
A good fight.  
A good rescue.  
A few explosions and a few angry guards.  
What more was needed for a happy life?  
A good jug of wine, maybe.

Porthos smiled and inhaled the familiar scent of horses and hay before he bit heartily into the apple.

* * *

In his chambers, Aramis dropped exhausted onto his bed.  
There he sat on the edge of the bed and finally was able to take off his mask, his mask of good humor and undauntedness, which he put on so often that it had become second nature to him.

_"I want no sign of weakness, René. Rely on your own power. Focus. With sufficient self-confidence, one overcomes every obstacle". _

That's how his father's incessant words still sounded in his ears ever so often.  
How many times had he heard those words until they had become ingrained to him?

Whether the eight-year-old René was injured in combat training or whether the 14-year-old René was uncertain about his behaviour towards a young girl. Always and in every situation, his father had used the same words like the recurring syllables of the Rosary, a wisdom for all situations.

_"I want no sign of weakness. Rely on your own power. Focus. With sufficient self-confidence, one overcomes every obstacle"._

And Monsieur d'Herblay had not even been wrong. René had believed his words, heeded them, defended them to the bone, until, as a child and later as a young lad, he came into situations again and again in which they offered no comfort to his soul.

Falling off his horse during riding lessons at the age of nine and breaking his arm so badly that it had to be set by a fearsome medic. For days young René had been delirious, with his healthy hand subconsciously searching for his father's hand, but finding only his words. No reassuring touch, no comforting gesture:

_"I want no sign of weakness, René. A real man does not cry."_

And so young René cried in secret, in the middle of the night, when the pain and fear became too great. When the shadows of his cold room grew longer and the loneliness deeper until the child wished that it would be over, that the devils of the night would finally come and get him, so that he no longer had to suffer. And he started to pray.

Later, at the age of 12, after mass, he often felt the urge to speak to Father Bernard of the neighboring monastery. The wise Jesuit had many exciting stories to tell, and he "had been dotty about the boy", as his father put it.

"If you go on like this, you gonna be a priest some day,"  
his father sometimes fooled René in a joke and gave him a "friendly pat" with his big hand, as he called it.  
After a while René had not even ducked when he saw his fathers hand coming.

But some education could not hurt, and so René was allowed to speak to the priest now and again on sundays after mass. Father Bernard explained to him the true meaning of many prayers in an adjoining room to the sacristy, taught Greek characters and Latin plant names, and, using small drawings, explained the science of Galileo and Copernicus.

Of course, always under the guise of secrecy. Bernard taught René about the Bible ... and the bloodstream. And his young scholar was docile whenever the rigorous training sessions with his father allowed him to visit his teacher. Father Bernard kept René interested in both religion and science until ... until Isabel caught Renés eye out of the crowd of local girls.

René, with his charming smile, his steeled body and his keen wit, could barely resist the brash looks of the neighbourhood-girls, neither wanted it. _"With sufficient self-confidence, one overcomes every obstacle",_ his father had taught him. And aged just 15, the lad had learned this art, the art of seduction, with ease.

"That's your mother's blood!", his father had said to him half in anger, half in jest, as he caught his son exchanging glances with the local girls during mass and served him with a juicy slap outside the church doors. René had barely felt it. Was only fixated on his father's eyes, which he had learned to read so well. No: the old man was not really angry. Otherwise he would have struck much harder and more often.

René controlled a mischievous smile to wander to his lips, glanced an apologetic look to his fathers face, and felt the well-known fist of Monsieur d´Herblay in his hair, which turned him roughly and sent him with a kick in the buttocks in direction of the waiting horses.

"I do not want trouble, my friend, understood!" his father growled after him.  
"So hold yourself back for a few more years!"

René ducked and ... about a year later after the Pentecost Mass in May 1619, Isabel lay in his arms, on a saddlecloth in the haystack of her family.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He was 16 years old and had just turned into a man. Sometimes even today he still could feel her warm, tender skin leaning against his chest. They would marry, that much was certain. He would care for this wonderful, delicate creature for the rest of his days.

Again and again René and Isabel met for several weeks in secret, loved each other tender and hot, explored their bodies and lay close entwined, talking about of their dreams and desires. They would leave the village behind, go to Paris together. He could become a soldier in the kings regiment. Their kids would play in the streets, Isabel having a watchful eye over them as their beloved mother, a wellknown and respected neigbour, the wife of a couragous soldier. Both serving their community in their own special way.

The dreams of children, who had not seen anything of the world.

* * *

Looking back Aramis saw it before his inner eye: Isabels thin pale face, in the corner by the fireplace. His own face, black and blue, his lip split open after his father had beaten the living daylights out of him.

Claudine, the merchants daughter and Isabels best friend had not meant it badly, but with her cry of shock she had first called his own, then Isabels father into the barn. Monsieur Fontainbleu was a wise, patient man, a close confidant of Father Bernards and Isabel his 8th daughter and the youngest of his ten children. René had never heard the thoughtful Monsieur Fontainbleu curse like this before. Grabbing the boy by the neck the preprinted lad already expected a more or less fierce beating, but Monsieur Fontainbleu had only thrown him to the feet of his fuming father. Monsieur d'Herblay, on the contrary, had not been squeamish on the punishment of his misbehaving son.

But this was nothing against the thrashing he received when it came out two days later that Isabel was pregnant.  
Pregnant?  
Young René could barely understand what that meant. Neither he nor Isabel had ever thought about it. Neither of them had enough experience to realize the extent of their carelessness.

* * *

Monsieur Fontainbleu sat at the large wooden table in the families common room, a glass of wine in his hands. The only sound to be heard was his deep, calm breathing. It was hard for René to interpret this quietness, wether the deep breathing suggested anger or thoughtfulness. He himself stood at the other side of the table, holding his aching right side, now and then a shiver went through his bent body.

Finally, Monsieur Fontainbleu lifted his head and eyed René seriously.  
"Sit down, boy, before you keel over."  
He pointed to one of the heavy wooden chairs.

Turning to his father, he said:  
"You should not have handled him so hard, d'Herblay."

In his fathers narrowed eyes René could see a spark of guilt, but also defiance.  
"As if he did not deserve it, the useless bungler!" his father grumbled.

"Enough of that, the misfortune has happened."  
Fontainbleus warm eyes touched Isabel, whose lips where quivering.  
"And there are always two responsible, we all know that."

Isabels chin trembled, as she wrapped her scrawny arms protectively around her belly.  
"Now we have to find a solution, and fast."

The count looked around seriously and his steel-hard eyes stuck to the young man.  
"René, you will marry Isabel, and make of her a respectable wife."

Renés eyes widened. Could this be true? Could the resolving be so easy?  
His eyes gleamed and sought Isabels gaze.  
But she continued to stare into the flames in the fireplace, clutching her middle.

Rene swallowed and nodded, both to Monsieur Fontainbleu and to his father, who was examining him.  
"I want to do everything in my power to make Isabel happy, monsieur."  
The words nearly stumbled out of his mouth. He swallowed again.  
"Thank you, Monsieur, a thousand thanks."

"Yes, yes. You are young. You can work in your fathers household, and with Gods help this accident may not turn into a disaster."

The count stood up and, to Rene's astonishment, stepped to his daughter and lovingly placed his big hands on her shoulders.  
A gesture he himself did not know, nor expected from his father.

Instead, he felt his grim hand on his neck again.  
He looked up in terror. Followed another salve of punches?  
No, he was just roughly shoved to the door before he could exchange another word or even a look with Isabel.

He groaned as his injured right side collided with the door frame.

"Not so coarse, d'Herblay. He is still your son." Monsieur Fontainbleu remarked defensively.  
"You should get the boy examined by Father Bernard," he heard Monsieur Fontainbleus voice as the thick door closed behind them.

A few minutes later he found himself lying on the cold stone floor of the sacristy, where his father had had dragged him roughly and had thrown him to Father Bernards feet. The priest passed a surprised look from son to father, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he bent concerned over to the boy.

"Make sure he can walk decently tomorrow," his fathers voice rumbled over him.

"He has to lead his bride to the altar."


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the delay, I started another project on the TV-series "Resident", and got a little sweapt away :-) But here comes the next chapter of this story - and no worries, I will definitely finish it! Thanks for all your support and reviews!_

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

Aramis was breathing heavily as he lifted his shirt with trembling hands to assess the damage to his ribs. He swallowed, his right side was black and blue, some dried blood had spread from the numerous scratches across his skin and he felt every heartbeat throb in his right shoulder.

"Aramis, Constance needs..."

Startled, Aramis dropped the shirt and turned jerkily toward the open window.  
He drew in a sharp breath as the unexpected movement tore at his injured side.

D'Artagnan grimaced, then climbed through the open window without hesistation. He positioned himself in front of his friend and put both hands on his hips, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"You´re hurt," he stated.

Aramis gazed at him, twisted his lips apologetically and swallowed.  
"It's nothing, just a few scratches."

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed. When did the lad learn to look so angry?  
He took a step towards Aramis and raised an eyebrow.

"Don´t "nothing" me, Aramis. Your ribs are black and blue.  
Where does this come from? Has someone hit you?"

Aramis had backed away from D`Artagnan, his back almost resting against his bedpost. Involuntarily, his face twitched as his side bumped into the wood. D'Artagnan raised his hands, his eyes softening. Aramis lowered his gaze.

"When the kidnappers pulled me off my horse, I probably landed on the bridge railing. It's alright, I'll take care of it myself."

D'Artagnan shook his head in confusion. He knew that his friend was reluctant to be a burden on others, that he seldomly showed helplessness or pain, preferring to wear a mask of good humor and lightheartedness rather than letting others have a look into his soul. Anger, fear, pain - only in fight could you sometimes see the true Aramis for a brief moment behind the facade. The hot-blooded Gascogne was confused how such a loving and helpful man, who would give his life for his friends without hesistation, would hide his innermost feelings from those he called brothers.

It bordered on betrayal and for a moment anger flooded the young musketeer. He felt the urge to shake some sense and trust into his older friend's head. But as quick as the wave of anger came, it passed ever so quickly.

D'Artagnan gently sat down on the bedside next to Aramis.  
"Why don´ t you want me to help you?" he asked.  
"I can see that you are in pain. Why are you torturing yourself?"

All air seemed to vanish from Aramis´ body. He heavily leaned against the bedpost, his eyes beyond tired.  
As he spoke again there was none of his usual smile on his face, only deepest sadness.

"My father taught me never to show any weakness. Never ask anyone for help, because that would be an admission of yer own inability."

D'Artagnan frowned. He knew two sides of Aramis: the thoughtless lover and the disciplined monk. The good-humored gigolo and the rock-hard fighter. He had observed and admired with what irrepressible charm Aramis seduced women and argued disputes, how he meticulously cleaned his weapons and studied the Bible or medical books. How he perceived dangers with an intuitive mind and protected his friends or innocents.

D´Artagnan had assumed that the long years of a soldier's life had molded Aramis to the person he was. But now he realized that there must have been a life before the garrison for Aramis. And that this life, however it was, had shaped his friend, too. A little bit like he himself: the ambitious farm boy from Gascony, who avoided no quarrels, did not shy away from hard work or deprivation and now lived his dream of being a Musketeer.

How could he not have noticed, or asked his friend about this live?

What other secrets had Aramis buried in his past? D'Artagnans heart tightened as he thought about how little he knew about the man he called brother.


End file.
